Daugherty and the Buddhist Retreat

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Daugherty is dry to the point of crisp, self-aware, *clean*. I wish I had the confidence to write like that; instead, I throw in every damn thing and hope for the best.

It’s Sunday night now.

This morning’s breakfast was oatmeal with prunes and honey. The bowl I dished out for myself contained my normal portion, but twice times larger than I needed, or, come to think of it, what I wanted.

I have my parking spot — very important, since the center is a long way down a steep, narrow dirt road. I have a camper, and it’s parked at the end of the road for maximum privacy; in fact, it’s the only spot on the property that can fit a camper. I got here early to score that. I have my spot in the Zendo: it’s second row…don’t like to be in the first row, a little too kiss-ass, but second row is just right, good view. I have my shower time; there’s only one men’s shower, and I have it to myself at 11:45. Got my pot-and-pan job; it’s the best job because it’s the first job in the morning. Got my dining spot: an easy chair next to the wood stove. Within 48 hours I have my routine locked in and am ready to defend my turf.

I see what I’m doing. I’m still doing it, but I see. It’s a start.